Chapter 8: The Morning After
Daylight changed the stage completely. At night it had been a place of shadows and held breath, lit by a few work lamps while Miriam mopped in the quiet. In the morning, sunlight poured through the high windows of Meridian Television Studios and showed everything plainly: the scuffed boards, the taped marks on the floor, the dust drifting in the bright air. Miriam stood in the middle of it with her bucket and mop, feeling like a guest in a room she had cleaned a hundred times.
She had come in early, before her usual shift, because Priya Raman had asked her to. The producer had called that morning, her voice calm and businesslike, and had said there were things to settle before the next show. Miriam had agreed at once.
The stage was hers to clean, though, and she set to work the way she always did, starting at the back and moving forward in steady lines. The mop moved, the water sloshed softly, and the familiar rhythm settled her nerves. Last night she had stood on this spot and sung, and the whole country seemed to have heard it. This morning she was mopping it again, and the ordinariness of that felt like an anchor.
Outside, the ordinary ended. Through the glass doors, Miriam could see them gathering: reporters with cameras, a few fans with phones held up, a van with a satellite dish on its roof. One reporter knocked on the glass and waved, smiling hopefully. Miriam waved back, politely, and kept mopping. She had no statement to give. She had a floor to finish.
Earl Thompson arrived with his bucket, took one look at the crowd outside, and let out a low whistle. "Well, you have got yourself a welcoming committee," he said. "I did not invite them," Miriam said. "No," Earl agreed, "but you earned them, which is different. Do not go out there alone, though. That is what producers are for."
As if on cue, Priya Raman came through the side door with a clipboard under her arm and a security guard a respectful distance behind her. She wore a dark blazer and the expression of a woman who had already solved three problems before breakfast. She crossed the stage, stopped beside Miriam, and smiled.
"Good morning, Miriam," she said. "You are still a member of this crew, and still a contestant. Those two things do not cancel each other out."
"Here are the ground rules," she said. "First, no one will ask you to do interviews you do not want to do. If reporters approach you, send them to me. Second, you will not clean the stage on a show night before you perform. Third, your rehearsal time is your own, and no camera will film you without your permission. And fourth, the wager Mr. Brenner made on air is a matter of record. It was broadcast, it was logged, and I will put the terms in writing today. You do not have to argue about it with anyone."
Miriam listened, and with each rule something tight in her chest loosened a little.
"Thank you," Miriam said. "That is more than fair."
"It is simply fair," Priya said. "Now, one more thing. The reporters outside will not leave on their own. Would you like to say a few words to them, with me beside you, or would you rather I send them away? It is your choice, entirely."
Miriam thought about it, mop in hand. She thought about Denise, who would be proud either way, and about Ruth, who would tell her not to let anyone rush her, and about the night-shift workers who might have heard the clip.
"I will say a few words," she decided. "Short ones. And then I will come back in and finish this floor."
Priya smiled. "Good," she said. "Short is perfect."
Outside, the air was warm and the cameras turned toward her at once. Miriam stood on the steps with Priya beside her, blinked in the sunlight, and spoke in her ordinary voice.
"I am Miriam Cole," she said. "I clean the stage at night, and last night I sang on it. I am grateful for every kind word. I am still a janitor, and I am still a contestant, and I am going to take this one step at a time. Thank you."
The questions came all at once, but Priya stepped forward smoothly and raised a hand. "That is all for today," she said. "Ms. Cole has a floor to finish, and we will respect her time."
Miriam turned and walked back inside, through the glass doors, into the cool quiet of the studio. Earl was waiting with his mop, grinning.
"Short and perfect," he said.
Miriam picked up her mop and went back to work. The sunlight moved slowly across the stage as she cleaned, and the floor shone behind her in long, clean lines. Inside, the stage was simply a stage again, waiting for the night, and Miriam was simply herself again, which was, she was beginning to understand, quite enough.